I hang back, hoping for a moment alone with Jessica. She knows what I’m doing. She’s taking her time saying goodbye to everyone, hugging Michelle, confirming something with Hazel.
Finally, it’s just us.
She’s got her bag over her shoulder, keys in hand, body angled toward the door.
“Jessica—”
“The venue confirmation needs to go out by Monday. I’ll draft the email and copy you for approval.”
“I don’t care about the email.”
“I do.” She meets my eyes for the first time all evening, her expression full of anger, hurt, and exhaustion. “Whatever else is happening, this event matters to my bookstore and to this town.”
She’s right. And she’s not giving me an inch.
“Okay,” I say. “Monday. I’ll watch for it.”
She nods once.
Then she’s gone.
I stand in Hazel’s empty living room, surrounded by abandoned coffee cups and committee notes and the lingering smell of fig cake, and feel the distance between us like a physical weight.
That night,I sit at my laptop and stare at my manuscript.
The ending I wrote when I couldn’t sleep, when the words were pouring out of me like a confession:
She forgave him. Not because he deserved it—he didn’t—but because holding onto anger was exhausting, and loving him was easy, and some people are worth the risk of being hurt again.
“I don’t trust you,” she said.
“I know.”
“I might never fully trust you.”
“I know that too.”
“But I want to try, to believe that people can change. That you can change.”
He pulled her close. “I already have. You just haven’t seen it yet.”
My email pings. Rodney, my agent. I’d emailed him earlier to let him know about the reveal.
Scott,
Publisher is over the moon about the new book. They’re calling it your best work—“raw,” “vulnerable,” “a complete reinvention.” They want to fast-track release alongside your identity reveal at the Twin Waves event. Full marketing push. Cover reveal, preorder campaign, the works.
Need your answer by next week.
Also—they want to know if the female main character is based on someone real. Legal is asking about potential liability. Let me know how to respond.
—Rodney
I wrote our story. Her wound, my lies, the letters, the beach. All of it.
I can’t publish it without her permission. But asking her means showing her the manuscript. Showing her exactly how I see her. Everything I couldn’t say out loud, written in eighty thousand words.
What if she reads it and hates it, and everything gets worse?
